Thunder rolls over the Hudson; crews pack up,
heading home. The fading sun drips behind
the silhouette of mountains and fiery trees.
Leaves crunch under foot;
a shaven man ventures toward freedom
and forbidden kisses, leaving his nagging wife behind.
“For business,” he said.
He thinks he hears his name being called in the wind,
and fearing a ghost he hurries to knock on her door.
As it swings inward, he inhales.
Her perfume and the smell of fresh
baked bread tickles his nostrils.
She smiles and prances toward him, half-clothed.
He can taste the alcohol on her lips;
her half-empty beer bottle makes him smile.
She is only twenty.
Outside, thunder still explodes
but not a single drop of rain falls.
Surrounded by his secret life,
relaxed, he takes a swig from a bottle of beer.
She curls up next to him on the couch,
fire crackling on the hearth.
“How is your wife?” she asks casually.
He turns and smiles, “Oblivious.”
They fall into routine, drinking
and laughing, laughing and drinking;
thunder always echoing, bouncing off of oaks.
“Rip van Winkle,” it calls.
The man stumbles into her bed,
pulling her on top of himself.
Another bottle of beer, another keg of rum.
Calm and mellow, they hide among blankets for days.
Or was it months?
He should have brought a razor.
When he returned to his wife,
he would want to look nice.
If he returned.
His mind, thick with beer
and confused, tender love,
slips into a sleep deep enough
to hold him captive twenty years.
The gardener tends to the baby tree,
watering it every day.
Gnarled wood twists and climbs,
forming a thin trunk with wiry branches.
But it still won’t grow.
When dry wind blows, bent
arms strain, reaching for sky.
Uprooting is the only answer;
he digs around the dying tree.
Lifting the tender sapling, old soil
shakes out of tangled roots.
Distress controls the young tree
as it yearns again for soil,
but the gardener knows it
will survive across the yard, in the sun.
His shovel digs a new home.
He replants the withering tree
into soil that is shocking at first, but healthy.
A few seasons later, when a year has passed,
the tree has found new strength.
The trunk thickens; blossoms
begin to bloom as spring bursts through
the desolate winter months.
The ship’s steam rises, swelling
as water rushes into its cavity.
The portly belly
fills with liquid energy,
puffing and chugging,
it brims over with magic.
Coffee cascades into the pot
like water rushing to fill
a ship’s wake,
like a desert rain,
ready to be soaked up
by my sleep deprived
body.
Poured into a mug,
the savory liquid,
bitter and burning,
pacifies my tongue,
awakens my mind,
only stalling long enough
for a ship in harbor to unload.
Emptied.
I snuggled deeper into the embrace
of blankets and love on the back porch,
safe from the eruptions of thunder
rolling through the air outdoors.
My daddy’s steady breathing rises and falls
in rhythm with each bolt of lightning
as it precedes a boom.
The fresh smell of coming rain mixed
with my evening shower’s strawberry shampoo
takes over my senses
as the electricity flickers out.
My father wraps his arms tighter
around my eight year old body
that is now shivering with cold, and fear
of the power this summer storm contains.
The rain finally breaks free
from the clouds containing it;
racing toward dust, the earth soaks it in.
Journey’s end.
